Dumb things we did (at the wheel) when we were young

Judge not, or ye shall be judged. Since we like to call out bad drivers, we thought it was time to admit a few of our own faults – from long, long ago

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Staff, Driving | March 22, 2016

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No assignment elicited as many “Are you serious?” responses as when we asked our contributors to admit the worst infractions from their early years of driving. Many of the most incriminating moments weren’t reported, no doubt – but what our writers were willing to admit is good for a few laughs. Thankfully, with age and experience comes wisdom (most of the time).

Brendan McAleer

As a father, there’s a slim chance my kids may discover this article one day. Thus, let me first say that I never did anything silly behind the wheel, always ate my vegetables and was never home later than 7 pm. Have they gone? Okay, then.

While I took my driving test in a stick-shift BMW sedan, my parents wisely decided to limit my thirst for speed by declaring the Bavarian boulevard strafer off-limits and instead letting me borrow the family Land Rover. It’s possible to get a speeding ticket in a Land Rover, but first you have to push the thing off the cargo ramp of a C130 Hercules at about 20,000 ft. The boxy Landie accelerated with the speed of continental drift, and heeled alarmingly though the corners like a British peer weaving his way back home after a few too many at the club.

And yet, I still managed to spin the thing 180 degrees and high-side it onto a concrete barrier. Whoopsie-daisy. Happily, the Land Rover just needed to be put into four-wheel drive so the front wheels could claw me off. Then, ’twas but the briefest amount of hammering in order to re-flatten the bodywork again.

Costa Mouzouris

The names of the parties involved have been changed to protect their integrity. Only once have I driven across Canada, and it was at the wheel of a Dodge pickup pulling a 45-foot trailer full of motorcycles, on a promotional demo-ride tour. During a stop in Calgary, my driving partner, Andrew, and I befriended Cindy. When Cindy discovered that our next stop was Regina, she asked if she could load up her bike in the trailer, and hitch a ride to visit a friend. She’d then ride back.

The drive was long, flat and boring. To break the late-night monotony, Andrew suggested the three of us play a game of strip poker, right there on the bench seat of the Dodge. Various pieces of clothing found their way onto the floor mats until there was nothing left. We got dressed just as we entered Regina – minutes before being pulled over by a police officer, who saw the lettering on the trailer, and being a motorcycle enthusiast, offered to escort us to our destination. Little did he know… .

Lesley Wimbush

Most of my escapades as a young driver will go with me to the grave – ain’t no way I’m coughing them up on a public forum. However, I will admit to a cringeworthy story featuring my 1986 Nissan Micra, a car that one friend described as “even uglier than a Yugo.” A primitive little box boasting 56 raging ponies, my Micra was my first taste of autonomous freedom. Instead of tagging along with friends to a riding club tailgate meet, I decided I would drive them for a change; of course, the fact that most of them drove trucks was a minor detail.

Bouncing along over a rutted field, four girls crammed in a low-riding hatchback, my wee beater began to emulate the booming of a muscle car. A coat hanger provided a temporary fix and we rumbled into the clearing, startled horses snorting in our wake. Curiously, we’d also attracted the intense interest of the hounds, who were milling around us, tails wagging feverishly and legs lifting to anoint the car. Not only had we managed to drag the desiccated remains of a skunk in the Micra’s undercarriage, but we’d also upended our potluck contribution in the hatch, filling the trunk with five gallons of chili. For the remainder of its life, a hot day would bring out a most interesting aroma in that little car.

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Andrew McCredie

What do you get when you mix a 16-year-old with a newly minted driver’s licence and a Ford Torino outfitted with a four-barrel, 351-cubic-inch engine? A $53 fine for excessive noise. The year was 1980, the place was Point Edward, Ontario.

Chock it up to peer pressure, youthful exuberance or just plain young male testosterone. With a carload of long-haired friends rocking out to Foghat on the eight-track, I mashed the accelerator at a four-way stop and lit up the back wheels like today’s traction-controlled teens can only dream. The Torino left a two-wheeled black patch through the intersection I marvelled at for weeks to come, though admittedly in a bittersweet kind of way. That’s because by the time we reached the next block, one of Point Edward’s finest was on my tail, lights flashing. Any chance of talking my way out of the ticket was spoiled by the “Surf Naked” bumper sticker and my wisecracking friends.

Lorraine Sommerfeld

Allow me to open with the caveat that, “Yes, I know I should be dead … but I’m honest.” Over 30 years ago, I used to drive race trucks back and forth across the country. Time was of the essence, though looking back, brains were in short supply. Driver change meant cruise control on a flat stretch of abandoned highway, fresh driver holding wheel from behind the seat, retiring driver scooted over and reclaimed wheel sideways, fresh driver got into seat and assumed wheel. We could do it in a few seconds. You’ll probably deny your own dumb deeds, and you’ll probably pretend your kids aren’t capable of stupid. If my parents weren’t already dead, my admission up there would kill them.

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Neil Vorano

I was 17, and my parents were leaving for a week’s holiday. “Use the car, but don’t use the shop truck,” were my dad’s parting words. So, of course, I used the shop truck – a late-80s Chevy half-ton with a diesel engine and four-speed manual – one evening to go play pool at a favourite arcade. When I was finished, I came outside, keys in hand, and my heart nearly left my chest; the truck was gone. I furiously looked up and down the road and, to my unbelievable relief, I saw it: It had kicked out of gear and rolled down the steep hill, across a four-lane highway frequently used by logging trucks, and came to rest quietly against the guy wire of a telephone pole. No damage done except for the years it took off my life. I told my dad the story years later when he couldn’t punish me anymore, and I’ve always used a parking brake since.

Graeme Fletcher

Most of my early life, especially when working in a garage fixing cars, was spent riding recycled motorcycles. Perhaps the dumbest thing was riding a half-stripped Vespa scooter (as in, no running boards) around a gravel-pit track many other riders used. On this particular day, I went roaring (a term used advisedly, as the Vespa was mostly snail-like in its pace) up one of the usual hills. At the top, I compressed the front suspension and popped the front wheel up, ready to wheelie down the backside; the problem was, it had been excavated. Cresting the top, I found myself some 20 metres in the air with nothing but a giant lake below — old Vespa and me disappeared in an almighty splash. I eventually managed to swim to the surface — I learned swimming in motorcycle gear is a good way to go if drowning is the objective! Sadly, the old girl sank. I dived for days trying to rescue her, but to no avail. The pit was seemingly bottomless.

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The bone-headed move that finally convinced me to end my two-wheel days was when, in moment of utter stupidity, I decided to pop another wheelie. I lost control and rammed a cop car. The constable did not see the funny side of having a loon wheelie into his “Panda” car. The bike was badly bent. Me? Too many bruises to list and in places I did not know turned black and blue (the largest being my ego!). I also got slapped with a ticket for dangerous driving.

Brian Harper

Yes, there was drag racing, high-speed runs, spinouts, burnouts, crashes and much more hooligan behaviour, all courtesy of the motley group of high school friends I hung out with. But since several of our gang of scofflaws are wrapping up long, distinguished careers in law enforcement, no more will be said. Like disco, wide lapels, platform shoes and just about every car built after 1972, what happened in the Seventies should stay in the Seventies.